Last night, in the middle of some other dream, I saw what lives behind the curtain—
that heavy velvet hung between awake and everything else,
back where dreams and soul, subconscious, spirit run the show.
It was Not What I Expected. I expected gears and pulleys, or
spreadsheets and projections, or possibly clouds.
Instead, two girls gossip at an outdoor cafe,
heads bent together, posture telling everything about
their delight in the world, each other, the unfolding all around them.
Cindy & Suzie are the names embroidered
in pink on matching bowling shirts.
They could be twins—short black curls,
heavy blue eyeshadow, bright red lipstick,
girls fixed up like the Andrews Sisters, ready for the USO show.
They don’t expect me, of course, back here where
we aren’t supposed to be able to peek.
One glance and we all know I’m in the wrong place,
me with my million questions about dreams and our futures and
why, oh a mountain of questions about why, so insistent and distraught.
They both smile, big surprised grins that say—
This is SO against the rules, but we’re happy to see you.
Pull up a chair. Let’s see What Happens Next and Oh,
this part is going to be fun.
Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems
The Girls Who Run The World
Peonies
This only in summer—
Time opening its dense flower face,
An old rose or here, a bright pink peony,
All day passing with others of its kind,
Basking in sun, rain, cool nights, the
Particular quiet of mid-afternoon
When even the birds
Whisper in the heat
And the peonies dream their flower dreams
Of stretching themselves
Into blossoms.
Graduation In Translation
Searching for your one important face
in a crowd of caps and gowns
and beach balls—which are against
The Rules and…There— you turn,
see me and grin that always smile
which all these years of practice
taught me to translate with ease
into this jumble of:
I’m hot, this hat itches, isn’t this whole
thing ridiculous but funny?
And as always, the grin includes
Instructions for me–
Please Do Not:
Cry
Take any more pictures
Comment on my sneakers
Or the girl in the next aisle.
I smile right back, knowing you too
are a master translator:
I love you, we both say,
as I reach for the camera.
Packing Up The Year
It fits into a dozen boxes
Of budgets and lesson plans,
Meetings and mindless jargon.
Do not forget
To pack the sweetness, too:
memories of children and
Books, all the delicious
Conversations that won’t stay
Inside any box, so they
Ride on your shoulder or
Swing from the rear view
Mirror, waving goodbye.
Evening Meadow
Small towns are held together
by petty strings webbed across
tree-lined streets. The luckiest,
like me, live at the edge of town
and can walk away.
Tonight, past yards, fields,
the farmhouse shrine to Mary,
barns, horses, then the meadow
where one white hawk glides.
Beyond him, one white plane
glints in late sun, with his thin
white contrail following like shadow.
Beyond them, half moon against
The dinner time blue sky.
White statue,
White hawk,
White plane,
White moon, keeping company
with the meadow and me, while I walk
till my feet and my eyes
remind me how to breathe
so I can turn toward town
ready to love it again.
The Opposite of Serious Moonlight
I just discovered a site called The Sunday Whirl, from writer Brenda Warren. What a fun way to loosen up words. Once a week, she posts a Wordle as a poetry prompt. I can see I’m late to this particular show, since the Wordle I used is #113. Here it is, with my response below:
Why?
The master of revelry answers,
Again—The important thing
is to step out of the cave.
Along the way, scoop up
crazy big loads of
anything that giggles.
Then, break open the moonshine
which wakes everybody up
enough to cut through
the daytime world’s chattering
So your day begins to make sense.
Face it, after enough moonshine
anything makes sense. The first
step is to get out of the cave.
Only then can you see the light—
bathe in that moon,its shine,
till you glow. You’ll know the cure is working
when the world splits,
cut into before and after
you remembered how to giggle.
Consumed By Work
An enormous animal
Lumbering through days
As if it has
All the time in the world
To give to the chase.
Or a towering clock
Gears and dark wood
And veined marble, heavy
Tilted off center, leaning
Ready to fall.
Or a mountain
That must be climbed
Though feet slip, can’t
Get past the scrim of loose rock
Here at the bottom.
Or a weed, some invasive species
With a short, intense season
Covering everything it touches
In a mass of tangled vines
Impossible to cut through.
Sycamore
From Sycamore bark, he said.
That’s where people got the idea
for camouflage cloth.
What else could we have learned
from the Trees Back Then
when we listened and
They were so willing to talk
and be seen?
Someone Else’s Sign
Today, the North Wind’s strong arms
full to overflowing
with signs and portents,
faltered in the heavy rain.
He dropped one at my feet–
one I don’t even recognize.
What are we meant to do
with someone else’s sign?
Too Busy
There is a point
When my mind fills
And begins to quietly break open
Under pressure. Small holes appear
Where words and lists slip
Out and disappear forever
I’ll never know what becomes of
Them, my babies
But this talent of the brain, to
Become a sieve
Leaking away what it can’t hold
Relieves the pressure
So, despite all that’s lost,
there’s space now for light to shine
Into all those cracked open bits.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 